Two Silent Tears
by cosmo-queen
Summary: CHAPTER 3 FINALLY ADDED... Jack's Two Silent Tears. Someone offers to make Jack's loneliness go away but will he let them?
1. Sydney's Two Silent Tears

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TITLE: Two Silent Tears

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AUTHOR: cosmo-queen

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E-MAIL: kewljewelz115@hotmail.com

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RATING: G

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DISCLAIMER: Anything Alias related exists because genius burns for a man called JJ and co and so it rightfully belongs to him and not me. Sigh. So don't sue me because there's nothin' to gain! I wish I could come up with something that good though :) Perhaps one day I will, (I wish!) but for now, genius flickers so you'll have to make do with this :)

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DISTRIBUTION: Please make sure you email me first otherwise I might cry :(

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FEEDBACK: Be kind, be cruel, but make sure you review!!! Greatly appreciated!

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SUMMARY: Sydney's POV as a little girl, getting ready to perform in a Christmas play.

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TWO SILENT TEARS

It was two weeks before Christmas and we had just finished our final rehearsal for the annual school play. This year, my class was performing the story of the Nativity. I was Mary. 

I remember when my teacher had told me that I had got the part. It was the first time since my mother's death that I cried not because of sadness or anger, but because I was happy.

No, I was overjoyed., euphoric. The past year had been the worst year of my life. My mother had been killed in a car accident and then my father abandoned me, leaving me in the care of a nanny. While I loved my nanny very much, she tried too hard to be a substitute for my parents. 

I couldn't forgive my parents for ruining what had been such a perfect life. 

I changed a lot this year and it affected my school life. I was no longer happy and bubbly, but angry and upset. After a while, my friends stopped talking to me and I became lost in my depressing thoughts. 

The teachers never understood why my stories weren't about rainbows and flowers but about cold, freezing water. I heard them once discussing what a negative child I was and what an unhealthy attitude I had towards the world. 

They were right. My outlook on the world changed when my mother died. I hated the world.

I don't know if the teachers chose me to play the lead role of Mary in the hope of making me happier or out of pity or if they just chose me randomly. But if they chose me because they wanted to make me happier, it worked. 

During rehearsals, I began to talk to my friends again. I smiled. I laughed. I made jokes. I began to view the world in a more positive light and it worked wonders. 

However, standing out here in the hall, listening to my friend's conversations about their plans for Christmas while waiting for my nanny to pick me up, I had to stop and reflect on my life. The atmosphere was merry but with each passing second, I felt more and more isolated from the warmth and joy that encompassed me.

Listening to everyone go on and on about how they were going to wake their parents up at six in the morning and then spend lunch with their grandparents and dinner with their aunts and uncles, I began to feel suffocated, and ran out of the hall, choking back on my tears.

My nanny kept asking me what was wrong but I didn't say anything because I knew I'd hurt her feelings if I told her what was really on my mind. Instead, I gazed out the window and looked at all the snow, all the Christmas decorations, all the children walking the streets, clinging to their mothers' hand and grinning stupid, sickening smiles at their fathers, who had just bought them the present that each child was begging Santa for. 

When I got home, I told my nanny I wasn't feeling very well. I went into my room, closed the curtains and put on some Christmas carols really loudly so that my nanny wouldn't hear me crying myself to sleep. 

The next night was performance night. I didn't forget any of my lines and played my part with passion. At least when I was acting, I could forget about me and become someone else. When the play finished, the audience stood up to applaud us. I saw my nanny at the front of the crowd. She was beaming at me. 

As I got ready to bow, I scanned the audience and hoped to see my father's face lit up with pride and I hoped to hear my mother's distinctly loud clap.

But there was no father and there was no mother.

The curtains went down and as everyone went around congratulating themselves, I quickly walked off, shedding two silent tears. One for my mother. One for my father.

I had given the performance of my life and the two most important people in my life hadn't been there to see it. And it hurt like hell.


	2. Vaughn's Two Silent Tears

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TWO SILENT TEARS

CHAPTER 2

SUMMARY: While in hospital in the Counteragent episode, an unpleasant Christmas memory leads Vaughn to question his identity.

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Each year, at the start of December, I would start crossing off the days until Christmas on my calendar. I always used to look forward to Christmas. My whole family would get together and we'd all open presents and sing carols and eat a large, warm and very fulfilling Christmas lunch and dinner.

My mother spent every second day in December shopping for presents, decorations and food. She preferred to save her money, and was always telling me to do the same. At Christmas time though, neither of us could resist the urge to spend. I liked to buy the latest action figures. I had a big collection of action figures and was always making up crazy stories. My mother said I had a good imagination. 

My father was always so tense and so serious. His job required him to work hard so I couldn't blame him. That's why Christmas was so beneficial for my father's sake. During December, he was so much more light-hearted and so much more happier. He would make these really lame Christmas jokes but I would laugh anyway. My father said I had a contagious laugh, so when I laughed, he'd start laughing and then the world seemed a much merrier place.

One year, I got really sick. About two weeks before Christmas. I got some virus, which led to a really high fever that wouldn't break. So in the middle of the night, I was rushed to hospital. 

I was really scared. I'd only ever been to the hospital once before. I hated it then and I hated it now. There were so many strangers, so many machines and though everywhere I looked, there was white, I remember thinking it was the most depressing place on earth.

I would drift in and out of consciousness. I don't really remember anything during my hospital stay. Faces were just a blur and words were all inaudible mumbles. When I was much older, my mother told me I nearly died. 

I was allowed to go home on Christmas Eve. When my mother picked me up, she wasn't smiling. In fact, she had been crying. When she saw me looking at her red eyes, she put on a brave face and smiled. I could tell she was faking it because fresh tears were welling in her eyes. I knew something was wrong but it was late and I was too tired to make any sense of it. I just wanted to get home and sleep in my own bed.

On Christmas Day, I woke up feeling refreshed. I had finally got a decent night's sleep. I ran into my parent's room, ready to start the annual tradition of dragging my parents to the Christmas tree. I found my mother sitting on the edge of the bed, crying again. My father was nowhere to be seen. At first I thought that maybe he had had to go to work. Very unfortunate, but it had happened once before, a couple of years ago. Then I realised my mother wouldn't be crying over something like that. 

I picked up the courage to ask my mother what was wrong but she didn't reply. I assumed that she and my father had had a fight. I'd seen these sort of scenarios on TV before. So I asked her. She stood up, turned so she was facing me, got down on her knees and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Michael," she said, "I have some bad news. When I tell you what it is, you will wish I had never have told you. But I've always been honest with you and I'm not going to lie now. While you were in hospital, I received a call. These are the exact words the man on the other end said. He said, 'Ma'am, I'm afraid I have some terrible news. I don't know how else to say this so I'll be blunt. We have received confirmation that your husband was murdered last night, along with some of his fellow workmates. Please take comfort in the fact that he died defending this country. I'm...sorry ma'am.' "

I asked my mother if she was telling me that my father was dead. She could only nod her head in confirmation. I asked her if there was any chance at all that he would be home for Christmas. She just stared at me, with a blank look on her face. I took that as a no. My mother was about to say something, but I kicked her in the leg and ran off to my room.

I stared at my calendar. It was the 25th of December but it wasn't Christmas. I ripped off my calendar and tore it into a thousand pieces. One word kept swirling in my mind...dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. My mother knocked on the door. I went and locked it before she could enter.

I wanted to be alone. No-one could possibly understand what I was going through. Most little boys looked up their fathers as role models, as heroes. I was no exception. Who was I going to look up to now? Our father and son bond had been shattered.

I stared at my clock, thinking about how different everything had been only ten minutes before. How perfect it had been. My vision began to blur. 

I stared out the window and saw shapes dancing outside in the snow and heard laughter and singing. It all seemed so unnatural. There was no sign of life at my house though. Everything was still and this false sense of peace lulled me to sleep.

When I woke up, I was back in hospital. It took me awhile to realise that I had only been recalling a distant memory. As distant as it was, it seemed like only yesterday that I had lived through the experience in reality. And as old as the memory was, it didn't make the grief any less painful than the first time I had to experience it.

I felt groggy and disorientated. It took a few minutes for my vision to focus, and when it did, I laid my eyes on Sydney. She was sitting by my side, with tear-stained cheeks, and had her eyes closed and hands clasped together, as if she was praying.

I started to remember why I was here in the first place. I remembered seeing blood seeping through my fingernails and realising that it was the first symptom of the virus that Sydney and I had been exposed to in Taipei.

My thoughts were interrupted when Sydney realised I was awake. Her face broke into the most beautiful smile, but I couldn't bring myself to smile back. The memory had been so realistic and it just wouldn't go away. Sydney left the room, saying something about informing the doctors that I was okay but promising to be really quick, which gave me more time to think.

I came to realise the similarities between me and my father. We both worked for the CIA and we were both dedicated to our jobs. That dedication had killed my father, and had almost killed me. But I had survived. However, the possibility of following the same fate as my father scared me. I didn't want to be like him. I didn't want to die.

The more I reflected about myself, the more I realised I had in common with my father. Certain parts of the memory came back to me. I had thought that my father was always tense and serious. I thought about myself. I had turned into the same tense and serious man. 

I heard my mother's voice in my head, saying what a good imagination I had. I heard my father's voice in my head, saying what a contagious laugh I had. Those two attributes were long gone. When was the last time I had done something creative? When was the last time I had had a really good, long laugh? When was the last time I had made a really funny joke? I couldn't remember.

I couldn't cry openly. What if Sydney walked in? I could never live down the shame. But I couldn't help shedding two silent tears. One for the boy I had been. One for the man I had become. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: What do you guys think? I've got ideas for most of the other characters, so is there any character in particular that I should do next? Or should I just end here? Feedback is GREATLY appreciated.


	3. Jack's Two Silent Tears

DISCLAIMER: Anything Alias related exists because genius burns for a man called JJ and co and so it rightfully belongs to him and not me. Sigh. So don't sue me because there's nothin' to gain! I wish I could come up with something that good though :) Perhaps one day I will, (I wish!) but for now, genius flickers so you'll have to make do with this :)

SUMMARY: I don't know if anyone remembers this story and if anyone's still interested in reading the next chapter coz I posted this story up ages ago. But for anyone who wants to read it, Chapter 3 is now up and it's Jack's POV. Jack sits at home on Christmas Eve, alone and lonely. Someone offers to make it all better but will Jack accept their offer?

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TWO SILENT TEARS

CHAPTER 3

It's Christmas Eve yet again and I find myself sitting on the couch, with a beer in hand, staring at the grey wall so fiercely that I'm surprised I haven't bore a hole into the wall. So, there you have it. That's the limit of my Christmas spirit. The lights are all off in my house so passer-bys would be forgiven if they thought I was asleep. I know they'd be thinking something along the lines of what a miserable, gloomy old man who must live there to be asleep by 7pm.

Truth is, I'm very much awake. I'm watching these passer-bys and notice the frowns they make as they walk past my darkened house. I don't blame them. I know that the rest of the houses in my street are adorned with Christmas lights and other fancy decorations that make the street light up with happiness, joy and warmth. And then there's my house. Boring, dull and drab. I guess it sort of spoils the atmosphere.

I ask myself bitterly- who cares? It's not as if anyone's ever done anything nice for me at Christmas. No-one gives me presents. No-one asks me to go carolling. No-one wishes me a merry Christmas. Why then should I decorate my house and walk the streets, pretending that I love Christmas? I'd only look like a fool. 

Yet I remember when I was a little boy I did pretend to love Christmas. It seems so long ago now. I guess it is. My mother had come from a large family, where Christmas was the best day of the year. She would tell me these long tales about her childhood Christmases. The way she described them, it was like one of those sickeningly sweet Christmas scenes out of one of those sappy soap operas, where there's the huge Christmas tree, with tons of presents piled underneath and a long table topped with plates and bowls of delicious delicacies. Near the table is a large, roaring fire where the grandmother sits in her old, rocking chair telling squealing and squirming children the Christmas story. The adults sit at the table, eating, pretending to talk when in fact, they're either listening to the grandmother or looking lovingly at their children.

However, I really wanted to experience this sickeningly sweet Christmas. Just once, so I'd be able to relate to all the tales my mother had told me about how fun Christmas was. But I never did experience one. The main reason for this was because of my father. Though he believed in Christmas, he didn't have any Christmas spirit. I loved my father but I couldn't understand why he didn't at least try to make Christmas fun- for my mother's sake and mine at least.

So though my father wouldn't make Christmas fun, my mother tried for years. She'd prepare nice dinners and bake lots of cakes but even though I tried to eat as much of the food as I could, a lot of it just went to waste. I really appreciated that she tried so hard but I don't think she ever knew. Eventually, she just gave up. I didn't blame her. It must have been hard for her to stay merry when my father was the exact opposite. 

When my mother gave up, I thought that I'd try to make Christmas fun. Maybe my father would listen to me. I asked him to take us out somewhere. A restaurant, a friend's place, anywhere. He would always say he'd think about it but I quickly learnt that this was his polite way of saying no. I then found out what my mother had experienced these past years. My father only knew how to make Christmas forgettable. My mother and I realised that if we stopped trying and dreaming for a fun Christmas, then we'd have no high expectations to be shattered. In this way, the pain of another boring Christmas having gone by wasn't too bad.

After Christmas, when I went back to school, the teacher would always insist that every student tell the rest of the class what they did during Christmas. I imagine that her Christmases were the sappy soap opera Christmases. She wasn't the only one though. All my friends experienced my ideal Christmas too. I would sit in my chair, waiting for my turn, overcome with envy. But when it was my turn to get up and recall my Christmas, I would lie and describe to the class what each student had already described- the ideal Christmas. I know it was a lie but I had heard the ideal Christmas story so many times that it didn't always seem like such a lie.

As I became older, I merely acknowledged Christmas. I didn't celebrate it. Christmas became just another day on the calendar that was over within 24 hours. Eventually, I stopped acknowledging Christmas altogether and I didn't care. It wasn't any big loss. At school, I didn't lie anymore. I would tell my friends the real Christmas that I had had. I saw the pitiful glances but I was beyond caring what other people thought.

I would be invited to Christmas parties but I would always lie and say that I was already invited to someone else's Christmas party. I didn't want to go because I knew I wouldn't be able to party with my lack of Christmas spirit. My friends would just end up being disappointed so I didn't want to spoil their parties. Of course, while my friends were partying, I was at home, sitting on the couch, drinking a beer and staring at the wall.

Yet there were a few years in my adult life when I didn't comfort myself with the fact that Christmas would soon be over because I didn't want it to be over. For the first time in years, I actually felt like celebrating Christmas. I had a beautiful, loving wife and an adorable baby girl who depended on me and the only thing I knew was love. Christmas seemed like the perfect time to share that love and so for six years, the power of love turned me into a completely different man.

Each Christmas during those six years, Irina would prepare the most delicious feasts and arrange the most wonderful decorations around the house and organise the most fun-filled Christmas parties that I'd find myself counting down the days until Christmas at certain times of the year. Irina's love of Christmas reminded me of my mother's love of Christmas and I promised myself that I wouldn't let either woman down.

And then there was Sydney. She was the most lovable, gorgeous baby and my love for her knew no bounds. I made sure that her Christmases were perfect. I still remember the anticipation I felt towards her first Christmas. Each day during December, I'd go to a shopping centre after work and buy her a present. One day it would be a book and the next day it was a toy and after that it was clothes. The Christmas tree that year was cluttered with packages and parcels of all shapes and sizes. 

One of my most cherished memories is still Sydney's first Christmas. I'll never forget sitting under the tree that Christmas, holding a squirming Sydney on my lap, helping her to undo the wrapping and ribbons on all the presents. I'll never forget her clapping and squealing as each present came out of the box. And I will never forget the huge smile she gave me when she held up a teddy bear that I had bought her. It was bigger than her and she looked at me with those beautiful, big eyes of hers and said "I wuv daddy." Tears of joy sprang to my eyes.

Six years later, there were more tears. But these were not joyful tears, they were bitter ones. Tears of anger, tears of grief, tears of hatred. My wife was gone and without her, there was no more happy family. Though my love for Sydney hadn't changed, I couldn't face her anymore and I hated myself for it. I felt like I had let her down by not preventing her mother's death and so I thought it was best if she forgot about me.

Years passed and I was adamant she had. There were never any cards, any phone-calls, any visits. I went back to spending Christmas like I always had. Alone. But this time, it hurt. It hurt like hell. Many Boxing Days, I'd wake up with a massive hangover. 

And now remembering all these memories have made me realise that I've turned out just like my father. The man I hated for ruining Christmas is the man I've become. I feel ashamed now. How did I ever let myself come to this? Why didn't I try to stop myself? Looking at the beer that I'm holding in my hand, I've decided that I can stop. I will stop. I'm not going to get drunk this Christmas. I've had one beer and that's enough. I'm going to go to bed and...

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Ring ring, ring ring. Ring ring, ring ring.

That can't be the phone. It's Christmas. No-one ever calls me. 

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Ring ring, ring ring. Ring ring, ring ring.

It's definitely the phone. I know I should pick it up but I can't seem to move. Who would want to call me on Christmas? A faint suspicion comes to mind. It can't be. It just wouldn't make sense.

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Ring ring, ring ring. Ring ring, ring ring.

"Hello? Jack Bristow. Who is this?"

I'm pretty sure I know who it is. There is a pause on the other end of the phone and I barely dare to breathe. 

"Dad? Hi, it's me, Sydney."

My suspicions were right. My daughter. My beautiful baby girl, now all grown-up, is calling me at Christmas-time. Calling me. Tears are flowing down my cheeks. I can hardly believe it. My mind is spinning with memories but a certain one comes to mind. A little girl with a big teddy bear and an even bigger smile. 

"Dad? Are you there?" 

"Yes, I'm still here." I don't know what to say. What would a normal person say if someone called them at Christmas? "Merry Christmas honey." That's it. In amongst the happy tears, I feel like screaming at my brain. _Why do you have to be so cold? Your daughter is calling you for the first time ever and all you can say is Merry Christmas? And you wonder why no-one sends you Christmas cards!_

"Dad, are you even listening to me?" There seems to be a bit of agitation in her face. That's not very good. "I asked you if you want to come over to my place? Francie and Will are there, Dixon too, and a few other people. I just thought you might like to come...if you're not too busy or anything."

Now there was silence from my end of the phone. I was being invited to a Christmas party. Me. Jack Bristow. Who only five minutes ago had been sitting on the couch, drinking beer and staring at the wall. I was filled with joy and wonder and shock and amazement and so many other euphoric feelings. In my mind, I could hear pre-Christmas conversations from twenty years back. _"Sorry I've already been invited to my other mate's party." "I can't go, sorry, I've got so much work to do."_

Now I could hear _"I just thought you might like to come...if you're not too busy or anything." _ I was being given my chance. I could either correct my mistakes from the past and perhaps start a new Christmas tradition or forever confine myself to miserable Christmases. I could accept and spend a Christmas with my daughter for the first time in over twenty years or I could refuse and go to bed. 

"Dad?"

I wasn't busy, I didn't have anything to do and of course I wanted to spend Christmas with someone other than myself. I knew what to say but I couldn't bring myself to say it. 

"Dad? Are you there?"

If I didn't reply in a couple of seconds, she would hang up and I'd lose any chance I had of a merry Christmas. I'd only confirm to her that I was a cold person. _Say yes, Jack. Just say it._

"I'd love to come Sydney. I'll be there in half an hour."

"That's great Dad. I'm really happy that you can come. I'll see you then."

I could hear the happiness in her voice. I knew I had made her happy. And yet she had made me happy too. More happier than she'd ever know. As I put down the phone and sat slowly on the couch, I realised the great burden Sydney had lifted off my shoulders. She'd reached out to me. She'd invited me, not out of necessity but out of love. She'd given me a chance to redeem myself at a time when I had needed it the most. She'd made me realise how much I just wanted to belong. And for that, I could never repay her enough.

Driving through the merry streets watching people laugh and dance and sing, it finally dawned on me how much I had missed cooped up inside my dull, drab house. All these years, this magic had been occurring right outside my very door and yet I had never wanted to be part of it. However, times were going to change. No longer would I let Christmas pass me by. No longer would I stare at my walls, feeling sorry for myself. I was going to enjoy myself.

Two silent tears rolled down my cheeks. One for the Christmases that I had lost. And one for the Christmases that I had just found. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thankyou so much for reading and I apologise to anyone who liked this story because I sorta forgot about it. Well no, I started writing Jack's chapter right after Vaughn's but then I lost lots of it and got a bit dispirited and didn't write no more. I still want to do more characters coz I still have ideas so please review and tell me if you'd like to see more character's POV's done. Also, I know Christmas is long over but when I started writing this series, I planned to do each character's thoughts around Christmas-time. Like I said, I'm still prepared to do other characters but maybe I should change the Christmas theme. Whatever your opinion, please review. Please?


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